Nightmares
by Behindthebook08
Summary: "Agonizing screams tore from the young woman's throat, as the screams of a little girl, long since dead, echoed through her subconscious. Inebriated feet stumble up the stairs and into the bedroom, tripping to the woman's side and whispering gently, if not desperately, "It's alright, hummingbird. I'm here; you're going to be alright."" (Rating is very very cautiously chosen.)


A/N: Hello Readers, This is my first delving into the Hunger Games world of fanfiction, so forgive me if this is lacking perfection. It was just floating around my mind, and I needed to let it fly! I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to make suggestions, I don't consider this quite perfect yet. Reviews are always appreciated!

Ps: I obviously don't own any of these characters, nor the Hunger Games series. If I did, I wouldn't be living in a grungy little apartment counting my pennies to buy chocolate!

* * *

Agonizing screams tore from the young woman's throat, as the screams of a little girl, long since dead, echoed through her subconscious. Inebriated feet stumble up the stairs and into the bedroom, tripping to the woman's side and whispering gently, if not desperately, "It's alright, hummingbird. I'm here; you're going to be alright."

Her screams quiet as he gently moves a lock of sweat drenched hair from her eyes, her trembling body begins to calm, and he sighs to himself, praying once again that her pain will lessen somehow. "Haymitch?" she croaks wearily as her eyes begin to focus, and she recognizes the figure before her. Who else would it be? "Haymitch, I'm so sorry I woke you again."

"It's okay, sweetheart," he grins, "I was in the neighborhood." She chuckles lightly and he lets out a sigh of relief, he's done his job, he's made her smile.

In the daylight, she has nearly healed—as much as the former Mockingjay can ever heal. She smiles, she hunts, she accomplishes things. But at night—at night the demons come to play. They're no strangers to Haymitch, he's lived with them for so many years now, but to Katniss—only 5 years from the arena, 4 from the war—the nightmares are still fresh, the lifestyle still stinging. Every night, like clockwork, between 2:47 and 3:15, the screaming begins. At first, he had tried to ignore them; he had tried to drink himself to the point of deafness. He had tried so hard to maintain that barely visible line between them—but it never worked. He heard the screams from two houses down, and he couldn't just let her stay caged in her nightmares.

For some time he and Peeta had both tried to help. They split the time which they affectionately called, "Katniss Duty". Every night one of them would manage to pry himself out of bed to wake the terrified girl from her dreams—then Peeta had gone. Haymitch tried not to hate him, he really did, but the betrayal still burned.

Katniss had finally told Peeta the truth, finally figured it out herself. She didn't love him—not the way he needed her to, and she didn't think she ever would. She had tried to be nice about it, but they all knew Peeta needed to hear it; otherwise he would have spent eternity pining after her. After that night Peeta had gone without saying goodbye.

They knew that he lived in the Capitol, and worked as a high end baker. They knew that his cake decorating was legendary by now, and that he has a nice—albeit simple, girlfriend with blonde hair and unhaunted eyes. They knew that he had never called, written, or returned their phone calls. He was trying to protect himself—Haymitch knew it, he understood it, but that didn't comfort his best friend as she lay sobbing out his name, swearing that he is dead, that they've finally managed to destroy him. It doesn't help her when she is screaming for him in the middle of the night.

Now it was just Haymitch. He rarely drank any more—once a week, perhaps. His pounding head reminded him that last night had been his _once a week_. He missed the numbness and the escape, but he couldn't chance sleeping through an episode, or being unable to come to her.

That had happened once.

She had dreamed of the trackerjacks. When he found her in the morning she was huddled in the corner of the room, arms and legs bleeding into the carpets from where she had tried to scratch away the stingers, staring numbly across the room—where she swore Prim had been lying swollen and dead a moment ago.

He had been passed out with an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand when the dream had occurred.

Now he only drank to the point of sleep, and so very rarely. Glancing back towards the girl in question, he saw that she was compulsively rubbing her arms, attempting to calm the twitching of her over-active nerves. "So, hummingbird. You in the mood for French toast?"

Her entire being brightened at the mention, and he couldn't help but chuckle. Growing up in 12, she had never had French toast, not until he introduced her to it. Now she was addicted to the stuff, when all else failed, Katniss Everdeen would smile for French toast.

She bites at her lip slightly, "Haymitch, it's 3:00 in the morning; you can't possibly be in the mood to make French toast."

He couldn't help but laugh, "Don't tell me what to do, Everdeen! I'm going to make French toast, and you can't stop me!" He took off down the stairs, and smiled when he heard her traipsing towards the bedroom. When he heard the door close he exhaustedly slumped against the sink, turning on the faucet and washing his face. He groaned as he felt his joints crackling.

He would never admit it to Katniss, but his sleeping schedule was starting to really be an issue. His own problems kept him from sleeping until after midnight most nights—his mind replaying moments from his own past, tormenting his waking self. That gave him two or three hours of sleep a night, at most, and his body was objecting—strenuously. He wasn't twenty years old anymore.

He would try and find a solution, but he couldn't worry about that right now. He had another full day ahead of him, and French toast to make. He tried desperately to keep Katniss from finding out about his exhaustion. He just couldn't bear her guilt, or her worry. Unfortunately, he had already unknowingly failed in this goal.

"Haymitch?" he heard quietly behind him. He jumped in surprise.

"Good Morning, hummingbird." He said smiling, "You know, you're going to be the death of me, sneaking up like that."

She laughed, "Sorry. Would you rather I be a klutz? I suppose I could drink more."

"Don't even think about it!" he tells her, "I can't have you drinking up my supply."

"You don't drink much anymore, do you?" she asks quietly.

"No, kitten. I don't drink much at all."

"I'm glad." She whispers, and he can't stop himself from smiling. Maybe that is one good thing that's come out of her terror.

"Well that makes one of us, sweetheart." Loooking at her, he can see that she is fighting with herself. She closed her eyes momentarily, heaving a sigh of resignation.

"Haymitch, I've been meaning to talk to you," she begins, "You—you need to stop." His heart stops at the words, and even though she hasn't explained yet, he knows what's coming. "You—you should start sleeping at home again."

"Now Katniss," he begins, trying to sound smooth—light hearted even, as he begs desperately for the one reason he has for survival. "You know that I don't even know where I end up half the time anymore, I just stumble on to your couch in the middle of the night."

She snaps at him for the first time in a long while, "I'm not stupid, Haymitch, and I'm not a child anymore." She sees him visibly flinch as she speaks. "I'm perfectly capable of handling my own demons, thank you very much, and I don't need a babysitter."

"I didn't think you did." He mumbles, glancing towards the partial bottle left on the couch from last night. He doesn't know that he can handle this conversation sober. "I thought you needed a friend." He trudges over to the couch and flops down on it, immediately grabbing the bottle and taking a drink.

She looks as if he's slapped her. "I thought you had stopped!" she yells.

"Nearly."

Suddenly the bottle is out of his hands, and she has thrown it against the wall. "Damnit Haymitch, you're killing yourself!"

"I'm just trying to help you, you stupid girl! Why the hell are you yellin at me?"

She blinks for a moment, and takes a breath. "I'm—I'm sorry. I just, I'm not blind Haymitch. I see what's happening, I know how little sleep you're getting, and I know how worried you are about me. I've been selfish for a while but—but I can't lose you. You need to get sleep, you need to go home."

He grabs her hand on impulse, "Hummingbird—Katniss, I don't mind. Really I don't."

She looks down at their hands, for a moment, quiet. "I know you don't, but I feel terrible Haymitch. It's killing me. Please, just—do this for me. Take care of yourself for once, okay?"

As he argues with her he can see that he has already lost—once Katniss sets her mind to something, there is no stopping her. All of Panem knows that. He tries to convince her that he's healthy, that it's all alright, but she's right, and she knows it. His last ditch effort is to refuse—as if he actually has the power to stop her. His refusal just lights another spark in her.

"Fine." She bites, "You stay. But I'm going to start sleeping with weaponry again." He flinches violently this time, clearly remembering the first few times that she was woken her from her nightmares, in the days before he had given up all attempts at sleeping in his own home.

The first time, he had heard her screaming from her home and had come running, only half dressed, in the middle of the night. As he shook her awake she had sliced off part of his ear and had her knife at his eye before he could even finish his sentence. His ear was easily patched up, but after the second time, when she nearly castrated him, he had taken away her bedside weapons. She was reluctant, but didn't trust that he wouldn't drunkenly try and wake her again.

That was years ago. That was before Peeta had left, and before the nightmares had gotten worse. Sometimes he wonders if she even knows how much worse they are now. How constant—how loud. He wonders if she realizes that her convulsions have given her concussions before, or that she once broke his nose and three ribs before he was able to wake her. It seems doubtful, but with Katniss, you never really know.

He knows this is the time—the time when he needs to give in and be reliable again, when he needs to make her smile, despite the panic which is engulfing him already. "Fine lady, but only because I don't want the other women to talk." He throws her an over exaggerated wink. "A rogue like me sleeping over every night—what would they say?"

As she smiles he feels as if he's finally earned the title of victor. "Oh the scandal!" she laughs.

"I'm just gonna go get some sleep then, Katniss, leave you to your business."

"Okay, Haymitch. Have a good rest." She says quietly, he can tell she is trying to cover her own nerves as she walks him to the door.

"If you need anything, just holler, okay sweetheart?"

"Of course," she promises, as she hugs him for a moment. He smiles to himself drowsily. She doesn't often do that—not when she is fully awake at least. "Goodnight."

* * *

The next weeks are hell for them both. Her nightmares increase—she wakes of three or four times a week, and he's getting almost no sleep now. He sits glued to his bed, trying desperately to avoid drinking as he hears her anguished screams echoing throughout their street. They both realize how lucky they are to live alone in the victor's village, otherwise the peacekeepers would have surely been called.

Haymitch sleeps occasionally, an hour at 2 am, an hour at noon, but for the most part he finds himself staying alive on determination alone. He's determined that he will continue to see her every morning, that he will read the paper with her, that he will make her laugh. He is determined that they will eat lunch and reminisce about their first lunch together. He is determined.

His determination is what finds him standing at her door early that Sunday holding an obscenely large plate of French toast in one hand. When she answers the door she flings herself at him—it's a moment before she even realizes he has brought her French toast. "I thought I owed you, darling," he tells her, and her smile grows all the wider as she takes him in.

She moans delightfully at she eats, a sound which would have sent Effie Trinket into quite the tizzy, "Marry me, Haymitch. Please god, just marry me."

He ponders for just a moment, "I don't know hummingbird, you didn't even buy me a ring!" Her laughter rings through the house as she responds simply.

"Well I'll just have to do that then, won't I?" There is a moment of silence as we eat, and when I look at her I can tell she is trying to decide something.

"Out with it, Kat. What's on your mind?" Her head shoots up, and she looks back at her hands nervously.

"I just—I was wondering if—if you've been sleeping alright?" she asks, watching as he slumps ever so slightly.

"As well as ever, I suppose. I never got much sleep, you know that." She nods slightly, but he can tell something is still there, picking at her mind. "Why?"

"I just—I heard you screaming last night again." She says quietly.

"Again?" he asks nervously.

"It—it was the third night this week. I'm sorry if I'm overstepping, I was just wondering if you were alright. You never used to scream in your sleep—that was always my job." She finishes, lamely attempting a joke, which he chuckles at for her benefit.

"I'm sorry, Katniss, I didn't realize. I guess—well I guess no one has ever really been around to hear me." He shrugs, and tries to ignore the sad look which she is giving him.

He knows he should have told her then, laid it all out. He should have told her about the dreams and how they've been worse since he left her. That everything is worse. That night the dreams come again, and he's powerless.

* * *

They start where they always do, in the arena—with flashes of his dead mother, his little brother. But he's had those dreams for so many years that even his subconscious is becoming numb to it, but now there is a new addition. Her.

Every tribute he beats is her. Every assassinated family member is her. Suddenly he's back in the control room, yelling at the game makers to leave her the hell alone. The fires, the dehydration—that was all part of the game, he understood—or at least understood as much as he ever could. But how is her torture a part of the game? As she hangs, suspended by invisible cords, he can hear her screams—jabberjays flutter around her. This is the only way they can break her—the only times the tears come. She is weak this way, and the other contestants surround her, and sneer. Clove jabs at her with needle sharp daggers, as Cato lights her hair a flame. "She's the girl on fire now, isn't she?" he says snickering.

And all the while all he can hear is her screaming. Screaming for her lost sister, for her dead father. Screaming for him. All the while the gamemakers just keep telling him, "We have to make it fair, Haymitch," "You know we can't show favoritism, Haymitch."

And she just keeps screaming.

When he come to her hands are around his wrists, and her throat in his hands. He jumps back, releasing her as she takes large gulps of air. He doesn't know how long she had been deprived, but her face is dripping sweat and glowing bright red. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to regain her breath, and he can already see the dark bruises forming a collar.

"Katniss—Kat, I'm so sorry, I didn't—"

She interrupts him, her voice unnaturally rough, "its okay, Haymitch. I shouldn't have gotten so close."

Glancing around, it's only then that he remembers that this is his bedroom, and that he didn't sleep in her living room that night. "Why _are _you here, sweetheart?"

She blushes, "I woke up from a nightmare, and I heard you screaming," she says quietly. "I figured after the last few years—I owed it to you to wake you up."

"I appreciate it," he starts, "but you really shouldn't. You know how my reflexes are—how I react when I wake up. How many times have I threatened you with a knife before?" She can see him cringing when the numbers tally, how often he's nearly—how close she was to being... "I just don't wanna hurt you, hummingbird."

She nods slightly, staring at her hands yet again. "Haymitch—you, you were screaming for me."

He looks towards her quickly, but she just continues to stare at her hands. "What?"

"That's part of the reason I came. You've been screaming a lot lately, and I know how you wake up. I've—I've tried to stay away, for your sake if not my own, but tonight," she sighed heavily, "I couldn't just keep listening as you screamed out my name, Haymitch. I couldn't do that."

He groans slightly, "I'm sorry, Katniss."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, it's 3:09—I was awake anyways." She says, smirking slightly, and this time he's the one who laughs.

Haymitch lies back on the bed, chuckling and closing his eyes for a moment. She is doing his job tonight, calming him down, making him laugh, putting him back to sleep. "God, I do love you hummingbird," he sighs.

Suddenly he is awake, and as he listens to her breath quicken beside him, he knows he hasn't imagined the whole thing, he said that out loud. _Goddamnit Abernathy! What the hell are you doing!_ He shouts internally. "I—I'm sorry, Katniss. I don't know what I was thinking. I—I'm just sorry." He mumbles, as his brain screams at him to wake up and be cool.

Opening his eyes ever so slightly he can see her eyes glassed over as she stares blankly past him, her mouth ever so slightly open. He would laugh, if it wasn't his mistake which had shocked her. Small words are coming from her slowly, and he can barely put them together. "That's why—the dreams. French toast, hummingbird." He smiles to himself slightly, she was thinking through their time together—she was putting together the pieces. He couldn't possibly be more humiliated, but at least she wasn't upset with him. "My name, and you found me, you always found me—only you."

He watches as she remembers her time in district 13, when she spent so much time hiding in closets. He always found her, as soon as she needed him he found her—or if things were desperate, it was the same at the capitol, once they took over the mansion. He was always the one to find her, and he never gave away her hiding places.

She's mumbling now about silver parachutes, "So many silver parachutes—and Peeta, you were so angry with him after he—after he left. Never any parachutes for Peeta." Suddenly she's glaring at him, and he feels the need to back away quickly, "You shouldn't have favored me so much! Peeta could've used help too!" she shouts, and he can't help but laugh, would they never get past that?

"I didn't need the competition?" he responds smirking. She swats him on the arm, and he's glad to know that she understands that he didn't actually mean anything by it.

"And my home—and the booze…10 years." She mumbles again. Suddenly she looks up at him, eyes glowing. And as she tilts her head ever so slightly, she's once again the scorching girl from district 12. "You love me?" she asks, perplexed.

He gulps, but then says the words he has never spoken to another person before. "From the moment that you nearly skewered me in the train, hummingbird, I have loved you."

She smiles then, smiles a real smile for the first time in so many years as she looks at him. Then she leans forward and kisses him, simply and perfectly. She kisses him so softly he isn't entirely sure he didn't dream it; then she whispers in his ear, "I guess I should have been milking you for more French toast then, huh?"

He can't help but smile, even though it isn't a confirmation, even though nothing is definite, as she dances out of his bedroom and into his kitchen, he laughs gently, because he knows that his hummingbird is finally just that, his.

From down the stairs he hears her calling, "Oh, and Haymitch? I love you too!"

Suddenly it is as if his body is grabbing onto a million clichéd moments, he feels younger, stronger, happier—and he finds himself bounding down the stairs to sweep her into his arms. She screams, only mildly outraged, as she pushes him away. "You know I could beat you, old man, don't you forget that!"

He laughs, "But you wouldn't do that, sweetheart. Because you LOVE me!" he teases as she bats at him again. "Besides, the great Mockingjay doesn't know how to make her own French toast, so you better keep me around."

She throws herself back at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Well Damn. I guess I'm stuck with you, huh?" His response is to wrap her all the tighter in his arms and kiss her. She sighs dizzily as she weaves her fingers through his hair, and his fingers trace patterns on her back.

All the while, both of them begin to realize that they may not have to worry about suffering through their nightmares alone anymore, they may have finally found the cure they've needed.


End file.
